Chapter 3 - The Summons
Within two weeks, the entire valley knew about Elowen’s daily routine. The gossip spread from the
market stalls to the manor houses, eventually reaching the ears of the senior administrators at Ashbury Hall.
The estate steward did not wait for formal business hours. He summoned Elowen before dawn, receiving her inside the cavernous servants’ accounting room. Tall ledgers bound in dark leather covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and rows of brass keys hung neatly beneath numbered plaques. The steward, a rotund man with graying sideburns and cold, calculating eyes, did not invite her to sit.
“A respectable household cannot employ someone publicly associated with dangerous, unregistered creatures,” the steward began without preamble, not even looking up from his ledger.
Elowen stood stiffly before the heavy oak desk. “I wash linens. My personal time is my own.”
“That is not the point, girl,” the steward snapped, slamming a heavy ink pen down onto the blotter. “You brought unwanted attention to Ashbury Hall.”
“To myself?”
“To this estate. The Vales are significant contributors to the regional council. We cannot have our laundry staff consorting with monsters that threaten local property values.”
Elowen felt a cold spike of anger, but her voice remained level. “My apologies for threatening three vineyards with a crust of bread and a clay jar.”
The steward’s face flushed a mottled purple. His jaw tightened until the skin turned white. “You are insolent, and you are dismissed. Effective immediately.”
No severance followed. No recommendation letter came with her dismissal. By noon, when Elowen stopped by the local bakery to purchase a small loaf with her remaining copper coins, the baker stared at the floor and shook his head, refusing to serve her.
“Orders from the estate,” he muttered, refusing to meet her eyes.
Two days later, the quiet persecution escalated. As Elowen walked through the market square, a group of children trailed behind her, chanting in high-pitched, mocking tones.
“Dragon maid.” “Dragon maid.” “Dragon maid.”
Elowen kept her eyes forward, ignoring them as she walked toward her small, thatched-roof cottage. But when she reached her wooden front door, she stopped short. Someone had painted a crude, vicious black dragon across the panels using thick, tar-like pitch.
She did not cry. She fetched a bucket of hot water, a stiff brush, and lye soap, scrubbing at the wood until her hands bled and the black stain was completely gone. Then, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, she filled her clay jar with fresh water and walked back toward the silver trees.
Behind her stubborn persistence, however, a miraculous physical transformation was taking place.
The dragon was healing.
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Its breathing, once shallow and rattling, had grown deep and resonant. The hollow, skeletal spaces beneath its ribs had filled out with solid muscle. The dull gray scales were now edged with vibrant bronze, and beneath the rain, those bronze hues flashed with deep, molten gold. The broken wing, once dragging uselessly in the mud, had straightened, its joints setting correctly under the creature’s own formidable regenerative power.
The villagers noticed every change. As the dragon grew stronger, their mockery withered away, replaced entirely by a cold, suffocating dread.
